


Prole Divina

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Injury, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: He's his own creation, shaped in no one's image, reshaped by lucky blows and punches.  He's nursing a broken nose, hiding inside a sacred temple and taking one of the food offerings to feed himself with when the gods finally act.  Just as he was starting to doubt they truly were out there to begin with."Come with me," a rapidly forming mist says.  Jason's about died four times, a fifth one won't make a difference, so he shrugs and lets the cloud engulf him.  He has nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 169





	1. Land of the Mortals

**Author's Note:**

> Also titled: Zarathustra, or an eternal recurrence of the soul
> 
> Ok so, this is kinda funny, but I started this story back in May, which is when I wrote a whole chunk of it, and then life got in the way and I kind of... left this fic in the backburner. I added to it whenever I could, went nuts over everything that was already written and then proceeded to go even crazier over all the scenes that I had yet to write. 
> 
> Truth is, I have never put so much effort in a fic before. But for this one, something made me keep coming back to it, something made me refuse to give it up and leave it as a wip forever. Which means A LOT to me, because whenever something demands this much time and work I just... give up. So, in a way, this story has helped me a lot in ways I never expected, and helped me tackle my troubles for committing to one thing and seeing it through till the end.
> 
> Anyways, for the sake of what's left of my sanity I decided to split this story in 3 parts (which also goes with the whole theme of gods and deities). Halfway through writing it all my remaining neurons lighted up and screeched all at once HOLY SHIT this is like the Zarathustra but with a whole lot more homoromantic tension. Hence the alternate title. 
> 
> I _do_ have to give my eternal thanks to my beloved friend, Mizu, for letting me ramble about this story whenever I attempted to finish it and only managed to add more and more scenes LOL Thank you for being so supportive and amazing, I don't know what I would do without you.
> 
> All I can say now is that hopefully you will like this story as much as I do. I've never felt this proud of myself before!
> 
> (Also, this is definitely not beta-read, so if you find any kind of spelling error, _please_ let me know)
> 
> Dec 2020: slightly edited for a better reading experience. Third chapter is taking extra long because life keeps kicking me... and I lost the files to the final draft of it like, 3 times.

**Prole Divina**

1\. LAND OF THE MORTALS

A cliff stands proud on the east, one surrounded by mist and silence, shrouded by its seeming loneliness. There's a cliff and in the cliff there are caves and in the caves there's darkness and light, life and energy. The shadows there take many forms and none at all, they dance with the bodies of mist and the elusive graceful shine of the stars. Above the cliff, right on its peak, there is a tree: an old, twisted, hollow tree that has been there since tomorrow and always. Time plays differently here.

As Jason falls at the feet of the tree, maniacal laughter all around him, he can almost see _him_ , the reason he's been brought here in the first place, the reason his life changed for the better-the worse-the will be. He can almost see _him_ in the horizon, standing but with his back to the tree, so he cannot see Jason, cannot hear him if he screams. The laughter gets louder then, closer, crazier, taunting him with words he never wanted to hear but always suspected as truth:

_"Poor, poor little birdie. Still waiting for daddy to come rescue? HA HA HA! I must'a hit ya too hard in the head, little birdie! He's given up on ya!"_

Jason opens his eyes to look at the branches of the tree extending above his head. They twist like the streets he grew up in. They twist like the blood falling in rivulets around him. It makes him think of his once not-quite father, of his current not-quite dad. And, honestly, he should've known it from the start: since he was born he's been no one's son.

_I did not want to die,_ he thinks then, resigned, and closes his eyes again so he can better feel the grass, the mist, the cold, _I truly did not want to die._ It doesn't matter, regardless, because now the laughter is closing in on him, squeezing, pulling, until something inside Jason tears and he goes without a scream.

  
  


They are called gods. No one quite knows where the name came from, who first declared the designation, who spread it through land and sea. All that's known is: you _must_ call them gods. Some insist they are there for protection, and some truly do protect. Some say they have no reason and so they make one on the go. Some worship them, fear them, ignore them, but all respect them.

Jason's seen first hand what happens when you treat the gods in a way less than respectful: he's seen with his own eyes his father lying in a random alley, dying; felt with his own hands the cold, coagulated blood of his mother after he came home too late. He's tried everything himself, yet the gods never strike him down. Perhaps it's because he's truly fearless. But what is he to fear when he keeps losing everything anyway?

He's his own creation, shaped in no one's image, reshaped by lucky blows and punches. He's nursing a broken nose, hiding inside a sacred temple and taking one of the food offerings to feed himself with when the gods finally act. Just as he was starting to doubt they truly were out there to begin with.

_"Come with me,"_ a rapidly forming mist says. Jason's about died four times, a fifth one won't make a difference, so he shrugs and lets the cloud engulf him. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

The thing is, gods are immortal. They are made of things that Jason doesn't truly understand though he tries. Time, with them, is a tricky bastard and it can go never or all at the same time. The thing is, gods are immortal but _demigods_ — they are not.

And while little is certain about gods, there is much to say about demigods. They are the variety in the divinity that's eternal, they come and go and come again. Jason's one of them, though for which reasons he's uncertain. The mist that took him, _Bruce, Batman, a god,_ told him only special humans can become more than that, told him he's a demigod, now. 

Jason still theorizes, when Bruce is busy somewhere else, and thinks it's maybe because he took no bullshit, not even from the gods. Maybe it's because he gave the last of his food a week ago to a small and frail girl, a little thing that shook in the wind harder than his own shaking, even though he was hungry, as hungry as he could be. 

Maybe it's because he always got up in a fight after falling, even if he was losing. Maybe it's because the god took pity on him, seeing him dirty and worn down to the bone.

It matters so he acts like it doesn't. He meets another demigod, Richard, _Dick, Nightwing,_ and Dick tells Jason what there is to know and teaches what needs learning.

 _"You're new, now,"_ Dick says, smiling with stars in his eyes and on his lips. It's unfair how dazzling and beautiful he is. Jason still sees himself as the dirty street rat he's been for all his life.

 _"New, huh?"_ he grins, all teeth and energy, _"Guess I'll need a cool name now."_

_"The Fates will tell you that."_

_"The Fates,"_ he repeats, rolling his eyes, _"What do they know about me? I'm not about to wait and have everything decided for me. I'll be the Red Hood."_

  
  


When he comes to, he's no longer under that tree and the laughter's all gone. In all honesty, he always knew he'd end up here, Fates or no, so he isn't too surprised about it. He's still a whole lot angry.

(He's still being pulled at the seams, inside, by the hole in his heart and the desolate grief in his gut. He didn't want to die, he wanted to soar, he wanted to be so much.)

Gods can't die, not in the human sense. When gods are gone, you can still find them, if you try hard enough, and they are the same. Maybe gods will die one day. Maybe gods came with the universe and with it they'll go. The thing is, though, that while gods can't die, demigods can. Even more so if they once were human, because their souls never shed their mortal quality, and so they can be brought to an end by true gods.

This is how Jason dies, for real and in loneliness, at the hands of the deranged _Joker_ , god between gods and unstoppable in practice, though not in theory. Well, in _certain_ practices and according to _specific_ theories. 

He opens his eyes to see no tree looming over him, no mist in his surroundings, feeling no cold under his limbs. Jason awakens in the land of the souls, where the deceased go, from natural causes to war, famine, plague and murder. He thinks he should've paid attention when Bruce talked about it, in the rare moments he ever did.

He thinks it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Bruce never spoke of vibrant reds and thorny spikes, of heat and cold assaulting him, of this consuming nothingness and everythingness all at once. It wouldn't have mattered because not once did he mention this part of the deal, where the bastards go, the truly despicable. 

In this land of the souls is where he finds a being he perhaps should fear but is too tired and jaded to do so. What's the worst that can happen to him now? What else is there to lose? (But wasn't he the one with nothing to lose to begin with? When did he ever gain something? When did his count of possessions ever change?)

Etrigan is the name of the being, the one looking over all the land Jason can see. He's eyeing Jason with interest, palpable and open, like Jason's either a well served dinner or the newest, brightest toy to play with.

"Touched by the Fates you are," Etrigan says before Jason can even open his mouth, "yet this is no path to take, not for you who's been blessed."

"Blessed," Jason snorts, he can't stop himself. "Is my death a blessing now?"

Etrigan replies nothing, just keeps staring at him. Waiting, Jason soon realizes, he's waiting. And maybe he should be used to it by now, though he’s perfectly aware he might never be; he should be used to time being a capricious thing, doing its own will and whatever seems pleasing, because the waiting stretches on for a small eternity—a tiny one in which he learns all he can wrap his head around before he cracks and gives word to what’s boiling inside him.

“I want to kill a god,” he says, not bothering with questioning the how and the why. “And I will do it.”

“Many have tried, many have failed,” yet Etrigan gives a nod; pleased, he looks pleased. “There are reigns to take.”

“I don’t care,” he does, he’s confused, but he does. He wants vengeance, now, and that’s what he chooses to focus on. “I will have it.”

“All comes with a price: revenge you shall have if your soul’s in my hands.”

Jason might be many things but a fool he isn’t. He knows what that means: giving up his mortal soul means giving up his mortal humanity, means giving up any chance at ever rising as demigod again. A high price to pay for a high enterprise, killing a god is no joking matter, even when he wants to kill a joke itself.

He still agrees, there’s no going back, and that's how he comes back to the east, as human, or almost-that. All in all, Jason feels lighter, light in ways that are eerily similar to how he felt after not eating for a week.

On his chest there’s an amulet tied around his neck by a thin leather strip. He’s never to lose it, it’s his only connection to his soul.

Jason doesn’t travel for long. Soon he’s in the outskirts of the town where he began and finds beauty in the irony of his fall being the same place of his rise. Picking up his human identity is easy, though he’s marked by Death’s touch: the thin scar on his forehead, the ghostly white in his hair. 

Old names-he-once-knew refuse to speak to him, new faces turn away as he approaches. He passes by the temple and wants to tear it to shreds, so he laughs, broken, hollow (sad). He makes himself a knight for hire and makes the money needed to move to a small farm outside the city walls. Here no one looks at him like he’s going to take away all they ever loved.

(All the while, he wonders if Bruce, Batman, god, is looking at him; wonders if they even noticed he’s no longer there, up east and by their side.)

Having been once a demigod and now a soulless carcass has it perks: he’s harder to harm, he doesn’t fall ill and takes longer for him to get tired. It’s not impossible to kill him, though, and when he eventually is (he’s no fool, he knows he will be) then he’ll be Etrigan’s slave for as long as Etrigan wishes him to be. 

It’s all worth it, though. It will be. It _has_ to be.

He joins the king’s army when the king sends for him. Word has the tendency to travel fast. Jason mostly accepts because he knows this is the ruler of the kingdom he remembers Bruce looking over, protecting, because that way Bruce will see him for sure (he wonders and wonders and wonders), will see what he's sacrificed and what he'll do from now on (kill, torture, kill). 

This way he’ll stick it to the big man, doing what he always frowned upon, while still using the army’s resources to get the things he needs and the ones that are for contingencies. The other soldiers and knights avoid him because they see he's been marked by the thing most don’t come back from. They think being near him means they will perish soon, which, in all honesty, they will, but not because of Jason's presence. War tends to kill people.

He still makes acquaintances, and the odd friend (an archer named Roy who has no fear and acts like he’s got nothing to lose; Jason is honest enough with himself to admit he’s worried about Roy the most: perfect candidate for demigod he is, and Jason knows how much of a bad deal that is). 

He's looking over a field covered by fallen soldiers when _Clark, Superman, god_ , falls down next to him. Jason knows he's the only one who can see him, because no normal human can see the divine unless the divine wishes to manifest itself to them.

 _"Bruce is suffering,"_ are his words and Jason appreciates that he goes straight to the point.

"Good," he says through the hollow in his chest that feels bigger.

_"For you."_

Jason grits his teeth, hand closing around the handle of his sword. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Clark keeps talking:

_"Please, Jason, come back. Come back home."_

There’s no thinking, all instinct, when he replies: "This is my home."

 _"This?,”_ Clark frowns, and turns to look at the land before them, _“Fields filled with the dead?"_

Clark doesn't believe him. Jason wants to laugh, because he's not lying: this is his home, the home of his soul, fields covered in bodies and blood and gore and suffering. Etrigan pokes one of the strings and Jason can feel it. But Clark doesn't know the price Jason has paid to be here. Bruce might, though he probably won't admit it until he's certain.

"Even if I wanted to," he says, then, because Clark's never done anything wrong to him and because he's tired, he wants to go back to his tent, "I can't go back there without my soul."

He leaves then, doesn't want to risk seeing the look on Clark's face after what he’s just admitted, and his eardrums buzz with what feels like a huge crack forming in the sky. That must be _Dick, Nightwing, demigod_ , he thinks. They all surely were listening in, waiting. Hoping. Hoping he'd rejoin them, he'd be back to them.

And Jason ignores the wind on his back, ignores the weight of Clark's gaze, as his armoured feet clank clank clank as he steps over fallen enemies and comrades alike. He feels heavy and clumsy. He feels more human than what he has felt for a while. It doesn't take too long for him to reach his tent, though by then it's pouring and tonight is going to be miserable for the sick and the injured. 

He's only partially glad it's so hard to harm him nowadays.  
  


Time goes on like that. War ends, peace comes, he settles in that small farm just at the outskirts of the town's walls and Roy visits from time to time. Sometimes he brings Jason what he asked for, rare things Jason’s convinced Roy has no idea what they might be of use for but doesn’t care and doesn’t ask questions, which is why Jason doesn’t mind him staying around for a while. 

They try living together but the farm is just too small and their goals are just too big. They remain friends, and if everything else fails Jason can now say he’s not going to end empty-handed once things are finally over. 

Sometimes merchants and rich pigs come looking for his services, they need a guard for safe travel, they need one for their daughters, their sons, their wives. Another war breaks out and the king sends for him, offers him to be a general but he refuses: he's a knight and only a knight. He will only lead himself. 

This war proves to be different: the enemies have another anomaly among their ranks, one Jason knows is like him and that's why he's been mastering the art of avoiding. Fighting another fallen-and-risen will only complicate things. He's still scheming out his revenge, after all, and he doesn’t need any setbacks or delays.

In the middle of it Clark doesn't visit again, but some days Dick, Nightwing, does, and others _Tim, Red Robin, demigod_ , is right behind him. Jason knows how to chase them out: he doesn't want to deal with the cursed family that let him die. (He doesn't want to deal with emotions that are hard to control.)

"If Bruce wants to say something to me," he says, angry and cold and hungry, "Then he needs to move his ancient ass and come here himself."

 _"You know he can't,"_ Dick tries to reason with him. Tim by now knows better, so he stays quiet (he’s learning, listening to what Jason won’t say and what Dick hides).

"For me, you mean," Jason grins as Dick flinches back, "For me he can't."

_"You don't know that!"_

"Oh, I do. We have the evidence right here, right now, don't we?"

He lights up the candles and throws ashes onto the flames. A cheap trick he learnt in the short moments he spent in the land of the souls, one of many. Dick and Tim are gone before neither can say anything else.

Jason wishes things had stayed at that. He does. And for a while it seems that they will; war is reaching its end—both armies are depleted to their last stretch, and even though the enemy lines might have an anomaly they still are on the losing side. They don’t have the land advantage that Jason knows the army he is in has.

It’s all pointing out to yet another victory, though a hard won one, when everything suddenly goes head down, feet up, because there in his tent is _Damian, Robin, demigod,_ dirty, drenched, bloodied, pissed off and cold... or so Jason assumes he is, because the kid is shaking like he just learnt he could.

"What on earth," Jason breathes out, flaps of his tent falling closed, "why are you here." 

It’s a stupid question. He knows. It honestly only took him one second to figure it out: Damian is a _fallen_ , too.

"That’s none of your business."

Breathe in and out. There’s no point in getting angry right now. He wants to lash out, to complain because this is really not fucking fair, and precisely because of all that he settles for: "It is if you're in my damn tent."

Damian huffs then, cheeks going red as his eyes skitter from one point to the other, seemingly just really noticing the place he is in. "Why do you care, Todd?"

"Because—because, fuck, do you even know the amount of trouble you just put me in?" Jason groans, rubbing a hand over his face and wondering, exactly, why things must always be so complicated.

They don't have time to say anything else, though, because suddenly there's shouting, screaming, and fire: an ambush, Jason realizes, a fucking ambush is happening right as he finds his once little brother standing in his tent with no sign of the shine of his former demigod glory. 

It's a lucky thing he's still armored and with all of his weapons, considering he walked into his tent seeking the warm embrace of sleep, and he rushes to grab the candle (the single black macedonian candle he's kept all this time, his one-way ticket to god-land, the key for his revenge to take place, the one thing besides his amulet he never leaves without) and shove it against Damian's chest. Luckily the kid still has his good reflexes, because he grabs it almost at the same moment and frowns at it.

"What is this supposed to be, Todd? Whatever am I supposed to do with this?!"

"Listen, kid," he talks through gritted teeth, feeling just a bit hysterical while shedding his cloak and draping it over Damian's shoulders, "you fucking shouldn't be here. You need to go. _Now._ "

"Where do you even expect me to—"

The fire’s creeping closer and the sounds of fighting get louder, too loud, and Jason can’t be blamed if he’s starting to feel something akin to panic.

"Run. Run away from the camp, light up the fucking candle, and think of—," Jason's voice breaks then, for a moment, a precious moment. (This is his only candle. The one thing his plans depend on, plans he sold his soul in order to carry out. _This is it_ , he realizes in that fraction of a second. Maybe he was never meant to succeed.) "Think of _home_. It will take you there."

One of Jason’s comrades topples into the tent, an arrow sticking out of his throat and a huge gash splitting his torso open. Right after it another figure enters, and Jason turns barely in time to block the sword coming down on his head with his own, Damian stumbling a couple of steps back, wide-eyed and pale. 

Jason gets one look at his enemy's face and curses just as the kid behind him gasps. Of course. Of course, out of literally any other fallen, it had to be _him_. The demigod that brought even Bruce grief: _Slade, Deathstroke_ , a _fallen_ just like Jason, a legendary one at that.

"I've been patient, boy," he says, voice smooth and deep and confident, "but I can only tolerate so much evading."

This is the worst situation Jason could ever imagine to be in. His heart leaps to the back of his throat and his knees shake, minutely, and he is in no presence of mind to deny it. This is exactly why he’s been avoiding the bastard, and now he’s got Damian to worry about.

 _It’s too soon,_ he wants to yell, _it’s too soon for me to go again._ He hasn’t even started his plans. He still wants to avenge himself.

Jason pulls back in time to avoid Slade’s next strike and he ducks under the following one to slam the hilt of his sword against the center of Slade’s armor, between the plating, not even bothering with holding back his strength. Considering who he’s fighting, he has to do precisely the contrary if he wants to stand a chance. The hit is enough to send the other a couple of steps backwards and that is all Jason needs, a second to breathe and—

“Fucking run!” He yells at Damian, who has never looked more like a child as he does now, “Run!”

—he closes the distance with Slade again, swords clashing and shaking in their grips. He’s not sure if he’s going to survive this, but at least he's going to give Damian a chance, the chance he no longer has. That’s what matters now.

(He should’ve known Fates would fuck with him once again. Fates have a tendency to be wicked, cunning, deceiving, and Jason’s been in this dance with them for long enough that he should know better. He should’ve expected this.)

Fire’s licking up the sides of his tent and creating gaping holes in the fabric. Fighting to the death with someone so dangerous while in burning close quarters is the perfect picture of a cosmically bad idea, so Jason leaps through one of the holes, fire signing his armor. Slade is right behind him, a silent menace, he doesn’t even look like he’s putting in any effort and Jason wants to curse him just for that.

Here he is, giving up everything, and Slade _dares_ to look like this is not even requiring a third of his strength. Such disrespect. He’s never felt more offended. At least the kid’s gone now, so he doesn’t have to see Jason struggling.

In the middle of the camp the ending of a war is pending on a thread, waiting with bated breath to see who the winner shall be. Everything’s a cacophony of sounds and desperation, smoke and fire, and Jason tries to shake all of that away from his senses because he knows he cannot afford any kind of distraction. 

Slade brings his sword down and Jason’s just a second too late in evading, the sharp end of the blade catching him on the side, between the plates, and hitting with enough strength to slice the under armour and cut his skin. He hisses and keeps moving anyway, he needs to give Damian enough time to get away and light the candle, so gets right up on Slade’s face and parries another blow, trying to land one of his own.

The other fallen demigod is stronger, though, inexplicably stronger in a way that makes Jason wonder _who_ did he give his soul to—until Slade, with an audible grunt, adds enough force to break their stalemate and bring Jason down on one knee. He loses his grip on his sword and it goes flying somewhere to his side and, well, he’s fucked now, isn’t he?

“You’re all over the place,” Slade tells him with a condescending smile that Jason has the urge to wipe off that face with a well placed punch, “perhaps you could’ve been a better adversary if you hadn’t felt worry about that brat.”

“Fuck off,” Jason snarls, quickly reaching for one of his long knives and aiming to stab Slade in the crotch with it when the bastard hits his wrist with the blunt side of the sword.

“It’s a pity, really,” he continues like nothing happened, which makes Jason understandably more angry, “I was expecting more.”

Jason’s eyes gleam in the fiery orange of the night. He dives to the side before Slade can even finish bringing his sword down on him and closes his hand around the hilt of his own weapon. He’s not giving up. Not yet. _Not ever._

“Fight’s not over, you asshole!”

He barely has time to feel sorry when he accidentally steps on a dying soldier—there’s a gross squelch followed by a groan and he almost slips on blood, the moment giving Slade a perfect opening to exploit. Jason has to move faster than he ever has in order to block it.

He’s not trying to be skewered by a sword and thus become a brochette of ex-demigod flesh. No one would even want to eat that. It’d be a waste and he’s too good for that. Plus, if he dies like that he’s one hundred percent sure Etrigan is going to do his damn best to make him relive that moment over and over, because it’d be a bad way to go, an embarrassing one at that considering his plans here on the land of the mortals. 

The bastard would probably say something along the lines of _Kill a god, you said. Become a brochette, you did._ Which is not funny. Not at all.

“You are an interesting case, Jason,” Slade talks and he’s not even winded. Just for that Jason decides to be petty and aim his sword for the crotch (though of course Slade moves in time to only be cut in the thigh; Jason still congratulates himself for that).

Slade does something—he can barely register the first move before he realizes that it was a feint, damn it, and now he’s left his side open and Slade dares to laugh, quickly transferring his sword to his other hand. Jason thinks, distantly, almost like he’s no longer in his body, that at least this time there’s no laughter, there’s no tree. At least this time he died while truly doing something about it. That _must_ count for something… right?

Except that a funny thing happens. Or, maybe, not funny and instead utterly unexpected, because before either of them can realize it there’s a tiny figure moving faster than it should be able to move, a dirty bent sword in tiny (gremlin, Jason thinks) hands followed by a mighty jump. 

Next thing Jason knows, there’s blood raining down over his head and face as the ugly sheet of metal sticks out of Slade’s throat, and then the dangerous bastard falls, sword clattering by his side.

He thinks the laughter he hears now, hysterical, is his and no one else’s, or maybe his head is fucking up with him again.

“Running is a cowardly action,” Damian, _of course_ it’s Damian, spits, red with anger, “and I am no coward!”

Jason opens and closes his mouth numerous times, brain reeling, until his eyes somehow grow tired of going from Damian to Slade in a dizzying back and forth. _What the fuck_ , a high pitched voice in his head screeches, _what the fuck, this fucking bastard, I had already accepted that I was going to—_

“Fuck, kid,” he groans instead of going down that particular train of thought. He can feel the fight leave his body, though, muscles uncoiling one by one, and he tiredly rubs some of the blood off of his face. Now that he’s no longer fighting for his life, he realizes that the war around him is also winding down. He doesn’t know who’s the winner, though he can make an accurate guess judging by the lack of angry soldiers trying to finish him off. “You should’ve gone back.”

Damian frowns and the expression just manages to emphasize how _young_ he is, even for demigods. “No,” he says with all the seriousness he can muster (which is a lot). “Father has been insufferable all this time, and so has Nightwing. And that—that _bastard_ hasn’t even received any kind of punishment for what he has done,” ( _to you_ is heavily implied). “What he’s done to too many.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, which makes Jason too uncomfortable. He doesn’t deal well with raw emotions and uncovered truths, which is why he chooses to focus more than necessary in kneeling by Slade’s side and patting him down. He doesn’t want the many weapons he recognizes by touch, he’s simply looking for—there, the amulet, so similar to the one Etrigan gave him.

The amulet that serves as their only connection to their souls and, thus, their demons. The source of their strengths.

He knows Slade is too proud to die this way, and from their fight he’s gathered that whoever has his soul, well… they are truly powerful. It’s best to have the amulet as leverage for when Slade eventually comes knocking down his door, because he _will_ , that’s for sure—a sword to the throat is hardly enough to truly wipe him from the fight.

Silence envelops them and Jason realizes Damian might be waiting for him to acknowledge what’s been said. Of course the brat’s not going to let go. He’s a brat like that.

“Kid,” he is tired, so tired, “I’m not coming back with you.”

Yet, surprisingly, Damian lets out a sound that might be laughter, “I wasn’t saying that, _Todd._ Surely you’re smarter than this.”

All at once Jason decides he has no time for this horseshit, whatever it is. “What the fuck do you want then, you entitled little—”

“I want in.”

“— _what,_ ” air leaves him, again, and he’s left blinking up in wild astonishment at the other. Did he hear that right?

Damian rolls his eyes, exasperated. "I said, _I want in_ on your plans on taking down this manic, crazed bastard. Surely you have something. Even someone as slow as you would've come up with a scheme after all the time you've been down here."

“Did you. Did you hit your head?”

“What?”

“I mean,” licking his lips, Jason slowly gets up on his feet and pointedly ignores how the sword embedded in Slade’s throat is inch by inch coming out even as he pockets the stolen amulet, “ _Did you hit your fucking head?_ ”

The kid frowns some more, looking up at him like _he_ is the one saying nonsense, “I know mortals are feeble creatures but I was under the impression that you were somewhat more durable—I see now that was a mistake. How much blood have you lost?”

“How much blood have I—,” Jason’s sure the thing he’s losing now is his sanity, “Damian, are you fucking listening to yourself? I’m not letting you get involved in my plans!”

“Well, why not?!” Damian crosses his ( _definitely gremlin,_ Jason thinks again) arms over his chest as his upper lip curls to show his teeth in a defiant grimace, “I’m your best shot at getting anything done correctly!”

“You are... _You._ ”

“Yes!” The kid’s getting even more exasperated, “It’s clear when I just saved your sorry hide!”

Jason passes his hand over his face again, ignoring how it sticks a bit to the places where blood is slowly coagulating. On his skin. If he dares to think about it too much, he’s sure he’s going to be disgusted (even after all this time, even if this is not his first war… besides, he usually has his helmet on, so it’s not like he’s been sprayed with blood that much before). 

The camp slowly rises back to life, if just a bit stilted, and he looks around to notice that the army he’s part of is sort of decimated and he’s one of the few still standing that has few injuries to take care of. The general’s still alive, somehow, and he’s slowly making his way towards them—eyes clearly focused on the body by their side. Well… Now is as good time as any to get moving.

“War is over,” the general says, somewhat solemn, “Let’s finish those of the enemy lines that are at death’s doors, then we shall begin our journey back to the kingdom.”

“But they are already defeated,” Damian whispers, confused, once the general had moved along to check on the other few remaining soldiers. 

Jason risks a glance at the darkened sky, without enough energy to muster a proper glare, and bites back the urge to demand _someone_ explain to him how they dare let Damian be hurt so badly that his demigod status was taken from him, how they dare let him be here, in the middle of war where no child should ever be, together with someone who is barely capable of keeping himself safe? 

He always suspected no one back there is quite in their right mind, but he truly could’ve gone without the confirmation.

 _Why have kids,_ Jason thinks bitterly, hand closing in a painful grip around the handle of his sword, _if you are going to make them suffer. If you are not even going to raise them. Why have us at all?_

The sight of the farm is a welcomed one, even when Damian keeps sulking where he’s trapped between the horse’s neck and Jason’s chest. Sure, it's nothing like what they have in that other place… no, nothing like what _Damian_ _has_ and that he once _used to_ have, but in a burrowed kind of way because he never truly belonged there. Even back then he knew. It didn't take any kind of genius to understand that.

The sky has been suspiciously quiet, the nights even more so. Not even a whisper to indicate that anything was ever disrupted. He knows he himself doesn't deserve it but stars, _Damian_ —he can't even begin to imagine what Damian's even thinking. He definitely does not want to know how the kid even fell in the first place. 

(If he learns the details of everything that happened, he's sure he's going to end up doing something that will ruin many things, his plans included, and he's had enough of ruins.) 

There are some other things he guesses he truly needs to know. Jason's mulling over how to even bring up the questions he wants to make as they go around the small house towards what pases for a stable, where he jumps off the horse and promptly turns to help the kid down.

"Don't insult me," Damian scoffs, batting Jason's outstretched hands away, "I can get down on my own." Which, thinking about it, he should've expected that.

"Oh yeah? Brave words for a brat who's still on the horse," he says with a big smile on his lips, caressing the side of the animal's head and down the neck, "Come on then. Hop off Jane."

The kid huffs, cheeks puffing up with the gesture, before he confidently throws one leg over one of the sides so that he’s sitting sideways on the back of the horse. His brows furrow and Jason wonders if he’s ever going to see Damian with another expression that doesn’t include a variation of frowning. He’s fairly sure he won’t ever get the chance. 

A couple of seconds go by and they are both still in the same positions, Damian staring intently at the dirt of the stable and Jason looking at Damian, waiting for the brat to do something.

He can see the apprehension in the kid’s eyes and Jason bites back a sigh. He knows what it is like, to fall in so many senses that any following fall feels like it’ll be the one to finally undo him. And then he realizes—he comes to the realization that he had more time to get used to things than Damian. True, he had that time in the land of the gone, but he had it nonetheless. 

There’s a painful pang in his chest as he slowly steps closer, mindful to keep a neutral expression unless he wants Damian to mistake it for pity (it’s not pity, it never will be, but he knows that any act of kindness can be misunderstood as such when someone’s in Damian’s position).

Without a word, he easily picks up the kid, firmly grabbing him by the sides to then push him up against his chest before changing his hold swiftly, ending with an arm around Damian’s back and the other under the kid’s rear.

“I got you, kiddo,” Jason says before he can talk himself out of it. Damian, surprisingly, doesn’t complain even if he’s stiff all over. To try and make the kid feel somewhat reassured, he adds: “The first time I tried to hop off Jane, I fell flat on my face.”

“Only you would do something so disgraceful,” Damian shifts in the hold a bit. 

Jason’s doing his very best to pretend that everything’s cool and he’s not internally freaking out because _Damian isn’t fighting to put distance between them_ , or even demanding to be put down on the ground. And somehow neither Tim or Dick, or, skies forbid, _Bruce_ , are down here with them right this instant? How could they all be failing this kid so much?

This is no weight fitted for his shoulders. This is no responsibility he’s prepared to accept. He doesn’t have a choice, though, does he? He doesn’t want to be another let down in Damian’s life. Not now of all times.

“You know me,” Jason’s voice is only slightly choked up when he speaks, “always the disgrace of the family.”

He does eventually let Damian stand on the ground on his own, after which the two of them silently agree to never talk about whatever that moment between them was. Instead, Jason teaches Damian how to feed Jane and how to brush her before showing him the way to secure the stable. It’s only after that when Jason feels somewhat centered enough to propose going the short way back to the small house. 

He looks at the walls, the low roof, as an unshakeable tiredness settles in his bones. With Damian here now he will have to actually start working on repairing the many things that need fixing, not to mention that he’s probably going to need to start working on building another room. 

For the time being, though, they will have to settle with sharing the same bed until Jason manages to put everything together.

It shouldn’t be too difficult, he reasons as he unlocks the door and pushes it open, the hinges complaining a bit due to the lack of use. The king gave him a hefty monetary payment that should be enough for all the repairs, and had also promised to send to him a reward for defeating the strongest fighter within the enemy lines. 

Well. The reward was only promised because he refused, yet again, to join the king’s army.

He’d had his plans in mind the previous times of his refusal, now he had only thought of Damian. He can’t take Damian to the human war, not when it’s so different from the way godly beings fight, and he isn’t going to leave him alone either.

“You live in misery,” Damian scoffs just in time to break Jason out of his reverie, pushing past the other fallen to walk toward the center of the room. He’s pursing his lips and staring at everything with a clear expression of disgust.

Jason can’t really blame him, without Roy around he never really cared about things. It’s not like he’s around the house for long periods of time.

Though that’s no longer true, isn’t it?

“Well, now you live in misery, too,” he replies but there’s no bite in it. Before closing the door he crosses the room to go to the hearth and carelessly throw atop the old ashes chunks of wood he cut some days before going to war. It takes him a couple of tries to light them up, his hands won’t stop shaking for some reason, but when he finally succeeds he turns to find Damian looking at him. “What?”

“I just thought…,” he bites his lower lip then, looking around the room once more before focusing his gaze on the young flames, “Well. I imagined you were living in better conditions.”

Jason shrugs, leisurely walking to the door and now actually closing it since they have a secured lightsource. He didn’t think of opening the window because he knows for a fact that it’s broken. He guesses that since Roy left to another kingdom he hasn’t been as attentive to the needs of the house as he should’ve been.

“I’m hardly ever here,” opting for honesty in his reply is easy because this time there’s no harm in telling the truth, “this place used to be in better conditions though. It’s going to need some repairs.”

“Repairs? It should be demolished! No son of a god should live in a sorry place like this!”

“You mean _you_ shouldn’t,” Jason smiles and sets about to heating enough water for a bath. They both desperately need it. “Well, baby brat, you’re going to have to get used to it. Plus, it’s not that bad.”

“Everywhere I look is covered in dust and dirt! It’s repugnant!”

“I was away! _In a war!_ I didn’t have the time to clean anything, alright? Wasn’t even around to do it! If it bothers you that much you’re free to help with the cleaning!”

“Ugh,” throwing his head backwards for a moment, Damian rubs his hands over his face, words barely muffled as he speaks, “now I see why father refused to talk about you.”

That makes Jason stop, completely. He’s frozen where he’s half crouching near the hearth, the last chock of wood held precariously in one hand, and he can’t even make the muscles of his neck unlock from the tight knot they scrambled to form upon hearing those words. 

_He doesn’t talk about me_ is the only thing he can focus on and it’s making him a little hysterical. _He doesn’t talk about me, not even to make a cautionary tale, not even to use me as example of how one should never fuck up like stupid Jason Todd did._

He can’t even tell if Damian’s still talking because his eardrums are ringing with the unforgiving timber of Etrigan’s laughter, the screams of the damned extending like chains until they are fastened tightly around Jason’s ankles. It should be nothing compared to the mist that fills his lungs and chokes him from within, nothing at all when put against that never-ending laughter, the pain, the loneliness.

He’s never left that cliff, he’s still under that tree. He knows time is a bastardly thing and that he’s condemned to always be there, there, there, because to escape means to break time and everyone knows he was never born for such greatness. Of course, what has he even—

“Todd?” Damian’s voice sounds far away, an afterthought. “Todd, you’ve stopped breathing.”

Jason tries to laugh but no sound comes out. Not even a wheeze. Of course he’s not breathing, he died, remember?

“Todd!” There’s urgency now in the voice and it seems to be closer than before. 

Something shatters inside him, something that hadn’t been among all his shattered remains, and Jason manages to lock away the sensation of being under the looming tree.

“I’ll prepare you a bath,” he says without even feeling the movement of his lips, without remembering when he inhaled air to push it out again with the sounds, “one dirty thing less for you to worry about.”

By the time Damian’s out of the bath and wearing the only clean spare shirt Jason had on reserve plus his own pants, Jason’s managed to clean the bedroom, change the dusty blanket for the other one he has and then clean what passes for the dining area enough for them to eat there somewhat comfortably. 

He can tell he’s restless, that he will be until he lets out some steam, but he knows that there’s no time for that. He has to grit his teeth and push through, like he’s been doing practically the entirety of his existence.

He’s on his way out to see if he has anything besides moldy onions and wrinkled carrots to feed the kid with, patting his pockets to make sure he’s got money on himself in case he needs to barter in the nearest farm for some vegetables, when his fingers catch the shape of the amulet he stole. Which is something he somehow managed to forget about until then.

Well.

He definitely can’t leave Damian alone now, not when he’s certain the owner will come looking for it soon enough.

Sighing, Jason takes the amulet out of the pocket so he can get a proper look at it, and now that he’s grabbing it without the armor interfering, he can feel the raw power emanating from it. It definitely isn’t Etrigan’s, which doesn’t mean as much as it could considering there are many other possibilities out there. All he has as lead is that whoever gave it to the bastard is freakishly strong.

“Is that what you stole from Slade’s corpse?” Damian asks, trying to get a look at the object.

“I didn’t _steal_ —”

“You did, Todd. If you want to lie about it, do it with someone who wasn’t there to see you do it.”

Jason sighs, moving towards one of the three old chairs and letting himself fall on it. “Quick question. You never went through the land of the souls, right?”

Everything in Damian’s stance crumbles to the point that there’s a noticeable paleness in his complexion. He swallows once, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

If he wasn’t so worn out, Jason might have taken it easy on the kid. _Might._ “Don’t give me that, you totally do. Now be honest about it, will you?”

The flames in the hearth crackle. In the warm, orange light they both look haunted.

“I—I saw glimpses of it. I didn’t. I didn’t land there. Just… enough to pick up a trail.”

Closing his eyes, Jason lowers his head and clenches the amulet in his hand. “A trail.”

“Yours.”

That explains how Damian found him, he thinks, while also being proof of the difference in their situations. Damian’s still got his soul. It might not mean much right now, or even in the large scale of things, but at least things aren’t so screwed up for the kid. He’s got a chance to come back. Not everyone gets as much. Definitely not him.

Taking his own amulet from under his shirt, he holds the pendant up to the light, making sure the other can get a good look at it. There’s no beating around the bush in matters such as this one.

“This pendant here?” He catches Damian’s gaze and notices the stricken fear making those eyes shine, “It’s my last and only connection to my soul. If I lose it or it breaks? Well… it would be unpleasant, to say the least.”

Damian nods. The color is yet to return to his face. “I understand why you took Slade’s, now. I didn’t…”

Jason shrugs, leaning back into the chair and feeling tired in a way he’s never quite felt before. Ancient, even. “You’ll be fine, kid. You’re the son of a god. You don’t need to resort to anything like this.”

Exactly a week passes by when the one Jason never expected to come back did. Clark, _Superman, a god,_ is hovering over the fields at the back of the house that Jason’s been working on to try and start cultivating his own damn food. He might have some money saved, but that is for his _plan_ and not to use completely in food and materials to start repairing the roof and the window, reward or no.

_“Hello, son.”_

“Not your son,” Jason says like it’s second nature to him by now, making himself ignore the way Damian perks up from where he’s washing Jane the horse, “and stop floating, will you? You’re going to spook my carrots.”

The god has the gall to laugh at him and only humours Jason after a minute, landing by his side before turning to look at Damian with a gentle smile on his lips. Damian’s answering nod might as well be a smile, too. Jason wants to hit something.

“What do you even want?” Huffing, he crouches again to start laying the seeds in the soil he’s been working with all morning. It’s not a perfect job but he’s sure that it will work anyway.

Clark looks defeated for the whole expanse of a second. Not that Jason can tell, he’s busy making sure he’s spreading the seeds evenly. _“I merely wished to check on you and Damian. I’m glad you’re getting along.”_

“Gods don’t interfere in this kind of human matters,” Damian interjects from where he’s taking care of Jane, “though I’m not a human.”

 _Neither am I_ , Jason grumbles in the safety of his own mind, standing up and wiping his dirty hands on his pants, _not fully_. “Out with it. We don’t have all day.”

 _“Nightwing and Red Robin wish to come,”_ Clark says then, and Jason has to wonder how this god hasn’t given up on the lot of them yet. _“Things are… out of control, ever since Batman lost his Robin. Even more so than when he lost_ —”

“What about Bruce, though?” Jason decides to stop whatever Clark was about to say before the words can finish coming into existence, “Batman and Robin doesn’t mean Bruce and his son.”

Neither Damian or Clark miss the use of the singular form. It makes the latter seem even more resigned, which shouldn’t be possible but Jason’s done with caring about impossibles when he’s set on making one come true.

 _“He is… at loss. I…”_ Something happens then, the sky near the horizon shakes and rumbles with a rapidly forming storm. Damian holds onto Jane the horse’s reigns tighter than strictly necessary. _“I must go. Please, Jason. Damian. Stay safe.”_

The storm unwinds shortly after that. Damian’s taken to staying hidden in the bedroom and nothing Jason does can make the kid come out. He’s withdrawn in on himself, which is maybe telling of _how_ he came to be with Jason, among humans, in the first place, and that is something that Jason does not want to focus on (not right now, still reeling from Clark’s visit) so he decides to start working on their dinner. 

He’s even putting a bit more effort into cutting the vegetables and adding the scarce spices he still has, hoping that he can console Damian, even if just a little bit, with nice homemade food. It’s still nothing like what the kid must be used to eat back with ye old gods, but it’s definitely fancier than what Jason’s been preparing these last few days. Hopefully the effort won’t go to waste.

Thunder rumbles outside, momentarily drowning out the sound of rain constantly beating down the roof, threatening even if they are inside the house and in (relative) safety. 

There’s this electric charge in the air that’s making Jason fidget and check everything twice, the hairs on the back of his neck feeling prickly and over-sensitive. And even though he told himself he wouldn’t, his mind inevitably wanders back to moments before the storm, thinking of the clear worry in Clark’s eyes, the frown set in his eyebrows at the first sight of the sky getting ready to come apart. 

Those were definitely not good signs, portentous enough to make Jason fear that his plans are going to get screwed up somehow before he’s even had the chance to start them. That would definitely be awful. All his sacrifice gone to waste…

It’s only because of the sudden and loud odd silence outside and the good, definitely overworked, instincts kicking in that Jason tightens his hold on his knife and gets ready for an attack just as the main door is hit with such strength that it breaks in half. He hears Damian’s startled yelp from the bedroom at the same time he turns for his eyes focus on the figure of the rude intruder.

He sneers.

“Did you really _have_ to break the door?! That’s gonna be a pain to repair!”

The bastard is totally unfazed by his words. It might be because he’s too angry to really listen to whatever nonsense Jason might say, but who knows? Jason’s pretty pissed off too. That was a good door, ok?

“The amulet,” Slade’s voice is tight and contained like a coil about to break free, which probably isn’t a good sign, “Give it _back_.”

“A reasonable request,” Jason says, though he’s paying more attention to the sword in Slade’s grip that is much bigger than his kitchen knife, “But, yeah, no. My most insincere apologies.”

He has only a second to dive to the side before Slade’s sword is plunging through the space he was in. The cauldron over the fire jostles and some of the liquid sloshes over after Slade’s hit connects but luckily no more of its contents end up meeting the floor, to which Jason thinks (perhaps a bit deliriously): _Oh good, dinner’s safe._

He has little room to move in, though, and he’s aware that fighting inside the house is the worst of ideas to ever have, considering Damian’s with him now, he’s no longer alone—and that’s the table Roy helped build being knocked over as Slade lets out a snarled yell, single eye bright with fury. Which, eerie, but it suits the bastard, so.

Jason catches movement from the corner of his eye and that’s definitely Damian, which is what finally makes him move and run the hell out of the house (sparing a mourning thought to the remains of his door; it had served its purpose well for as long as it lasted) and into the unforgiving storm. 

It doesn’t take longer than two seconds for him to be completely soaked and for Slade to catch up to him, the knife a poor deterrent to try and parry the blow of that sword. Still better than his bare hands, if not by much. His feet are digging and slipping in the mud, his chances to fight back here are less than optimal but he’s not going to let that stop him. There isn’t much that can make him stop.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, kid,” Slade sounds only slightly strained, voice still loud and commanding to overpower the deafening sound of rain cascading all over them.

Jason manages to wrench his foot from the mud. “On the contrary,” he crouches down low and slams the hilt of his knife on the lowest part of the fallen’s sternum, sending him skidding backwards a couple of centimeters, “I know quite well what I’m doing.”

This time he doesn’t get sidetracked and he isn’t focused on being on the defensive to buy someone else time. He doesn’t wait a moment to immediately jump after Slade, taking all the opportunities he can get now that the other doesn’t have protective armour on. 

Considering what they are, the difference isn’t huge yet it’s one that can be exploited anyway. If Jason didn’t share with Slade the peculiar condition of having once been a demigod, his odds at ever hurting the other would’ve still been abysmally small, with or without armour on.

He lands from his jump with a kick on Slade’s chest, hoping to bring him down for long enough to pin him to the ground, except that Slade foils his four next moves by grabbing him by the ankle and hurling him in the general direction of the main path that connects the farm to the fortified city not too far away. He falls on his side with a wet smack, slipping through the mud until he hits the roots of a tree.

The cold of the rain feels stronger here, something that Jason doesn’t like one bit. A yell from somewhere near the house, a voice that’s become familiar again after spending time not hearing it, makes him get up on his feet before he even has time to process anything and then he sees Slade running at him full tilt, a second away from truly turning him into a brochette with his weapon. 

(It’d be a crappy brochette, especially since a sword isn’t as long as a lance is and a lance would totally make the similarities to a brochette more evident.)

Jason manages to step to the side, the edge of the sword digging into the flesh of his bicep. Garbling out a sound mix of a curse and a yell, he runs away from the tree (trees are nice to look at, sure, but he’s starting to think that bad things happen to him whenever he’s underneath one of those fuckers, there’s clearly a pattern here) and notices the metal of his knife glinting in the mud tracks he left. He must’ve dropped it when he hit the ground.

Taking a split-second decision, he makes his way towards it as fast as he can considering he’s still a bit disorientated and the water and mud everywhere slow him down. Something hits his ankle then, a sweeping force that makes him fall flat on his face, making him choke a bit upon collision.

“TODD,” he thinks Damian yells through the ringing in his ears but whatever feelings he has are quickly forgotten as he’s flipped with rough movements so that he’s facing the sky. At least this way the constant rain can wash away the dirt from his eyes and mouth.

Slade presses one knee on his sternum and the hilt of the sword on his throat, barely cutting the frail skin there. “I won’t ask twice, kid.”

Jason shudders. Maybe it’s because of all the knocking around that happened in the span of seconds but Slade looks… _interesting_. Or maybe he’s just wrong in the head, like he always suspected.

“You—,” the sword presses down just a tiny bit harder and he lets a little wounded sound that he _hopes_ Slade can’t hear. There’s definitely something wrong with him because even though he’s chilled and drenched and tasting mud in his mouth, he still recognizes an undeniable spark of arousal low in his gut. “Will you let me talk?!”

“ _The. Amulet._ ”

“You really are single-minded, huh?” A little breathless, he tries to test the limits of Slade’s pin by wriggling in the mud (his shirt is a complete lost cause, he knows), but that only rewards him with Slade narrowing his eye and laying more weight on the knee pressing down on Jason’s chest. 

Wow, he _really_ shouldn’t be thinking of this in terms of a reward and his treacherous mind should really stop trying to go where it wants to go.

“Ok, ok, just—I _need_ to know—,” closing his eyes for a moment he reopens them in surprise when the pressure of the sword gives a little. “Who made it?”

Slade looks at him for what seems like an eternity. It’s unclear. In this forced proximity, Jason can see the way raindrops roll down Slade’s jawline, dripping from his brow bone, his beard, the loose ends of his hair that escaped the short ponytail they were once in. And without all the armour in the way, this time Jason can properly see the sheer size of those muscles.

He’s getting a little overwhelmed.

Just as Slade says: “Why do you want to know?”,

Damian is suddenly there, standing close to Jason’s head and holding Jason’s sword with his two hands. To his credit he’s not shivering, even though he does twitch the instant thunder crackles in the sky.

“Get away from my brother,” he says and everything in him screams that he’s ready to fight. Jason would be touched by Damian calling him that in front of someone else (being honest, he’d be touched even if they were alone, because Damian never referred to him as anything but ‘Todd’), but his worry overcomes everything else.

“Hey,” he speaks through a hoarse throat, “please go back to the house.”

“No! I’m not standing by while you take a shameful beating!”

“Shameful—”

Slade hums, the intensity of his eye shifting from Jason to Damian in a creepy way, eerie enough to make Jason desperate to regain the bastard’s attention. He’s never going to forgive himself if something happens to the demon brat while he could’ve done something to avoid it. Not when he was supposed to keep Damian safe.

“Step back, kid,” Slade smiles, a slow, predatory thing that makes Jason surge upwards, sword to his throat be damned, with enough momentum to thwart Slade’s balance and making him topple to the side. 

In the same span of a breath Jason’s on top of him, grabbing Slade’s own sword and throwing it away, instead choosing to choke him a bit by pressing his forearm down on his neck.

He’s sitting on Slade’s chest, caging him in with his thighs as his knees sink into the mud, and he leans closer so that their faces are mere centimeters apart. “ _I am the guy you’re after,_ so leave the brat out of it. Got it?!”

Slade looks at him like this change of position means nothing to him. Jason can feel his anger flaring up because how dare he. “Incredibly jealous, aren’t you?”

For the sake of his questionable sanity, he tries to ignore the taunt… and fails. “Shut the fuck up! You still need to answer my question!”

The bastard laughs and Jason can no longer feel the cold of the rain. This smug, infuriating— “So what should I do? Shut up, or answer?”

“You—”

Damian’s standing right next to them then, still aiming the end of the sword at Slade’s head. “Answer him.” Which is not as much of a command as he maybe hopes it would be, considering he doesn’t even know what Jason asked in the first place, but it’s better than nothing. Jason’s thankful.

“If you _must_ know,” the older fallen hums and no one has any business looking as comfortable as he does while laying in mud, under the rain, and with a grown man sitting on his chest. “Trigon. He’s the one that made the amulet.”

It’s like Jason’s been struck by lightning. He has to fight back his impulse of pulling away at the mention of that name which translates to him resting more of his weight on his forearm. Slade’s glare is the only indicator he gets that the other might be starting to feel some sort of discomfort.

“Trigon,” he repeats numbly, mind buzzing with memories of his time in the land of the souls, how that name was spoken with fear, admiration, respect, envy. He remembers the things he read in the old, ancient tomes he found among Etrigan’s possessions. So many things about the fellow fallen make sense now.

Slade lifts his hands to rest them on Jason’s hips, and if they were anyone else the action could’ve been read as a steadying one. That’s the only thing he does, remaining completely unfazed even as Damian steps closer with a warning growl. 

“Is that all?” He asks then, the intensity of his gaze keeping Jason speechless for just a second.

He makes himself swallow down the knot forming in his throat. “I. I need your word.” He pauses, clenching and unclenching his thighs, and tries not to get caught up in the other’s eye, not when Damian is right there seeing everything. “Give me your word that you won’t interfere with us or my plans.”

“I don’t know what your plans are, kid.”

“I think it’s pretty clear that is horseshit,” to make a point, he presses down harder until he feels against his forearm Slade struggling to swallow. He doesn’t get a thrill out of that. He. Does. Not.

“Very well then,” removing one of his hands from Jason’s hip, he lifts it up and to the side so he can grip onto the sword Damian’s aiming at his head, deliberately cutting his palm. The brat gives a single step back, surprised, but Jason merely lifts the hand attached to the arm that’s not currently being used to choke Slade.

Their palms are pressed together, Slade’s blood thicker on his skin than the rain around them. “You have my word.”

  
  


Things start to settle down shortly after Jason gives Slade his amulet back. It had never been his intention to _actually_ keep it, he had only taken it so that they would have an advantage over the bastard before he came knocking down their door (which he did, literally; it’s likely he’ll never be forgiven for that). 

Jason had been expecting the confrontation, he simply didn’t want it to happen while they were on the road.

From time to time he catches Damian stealing glances at his own amulet hanging as a pendant on his neck. The necklace itself had been handcrafted by Roy because the strips of leather Jason had originally used to tie it around his neck kept breaking over time. The metal feels better on his skin anyway.

The thing is, since the weather’s slowly getting hotter and hotter Jason’s turned to using shirts with lower necks or simply forgoing the step of lacing them up to properly cover his chest, so now the amulet is in plain sight. He knows for a fact that the vibrant red in its center shimmers whenever it catches the light. It's supposed to, and it can be distracting, or so he thinks.

Still, Jason doesn't make a single comment, doesn't try to get a conversation started. If Damian has questions or doubts, he'll voice them when he truly wants to, so Jason sees no point in rushing things. Besides, it gives him more time to think over every possible reply, every possible utterance. Some still escape him, yet there's nothing better than the feeling of being prepared.

He's got more time to finish gathering the things he needs for the last stages of preparation his plan requires. With Damian by his side and under his care, Jason's stopped accepting jobs as bodyguard for wealthy novelty, and if it ever comes down to it he will decline joining the king's army again. He made it clear last time: he's no longer a knight for hire, he won't fight again.

He's helped the kingdom so many times that he now asks for a peaceful life as reward—the king conceded it, yes, though Jason's intentions never truly included living in peace but rather preparing for revenge. It doesn't strike him as odd that he's the one avenging his own death: he always knew he was scum that came from lonesome solitude even before he died alone.

(The vacancy was truly never filled, not even when he believed, for a moment (the span of a lifetime), that he had been _found_ , that he had a _family_ to come back to, a—No, the vacancy was never filled, and maybe that's why the Fates never had something to say to him: another empty space that keeps being repurposed and receiving new meaning time and time again, nothing to settle the crevices of his soul in, nothing to claim as his own.)

Jason begins to use the guise of a craftsman to go to the market, sell some handcrafted goods (Damian's bracelets and necklaces are oddly popular among young girls) and gain enough gold coins to maintain everything in working order. Not just the farm, buying what he needs to take care of Jane the horse and the two hens he's now the proud owner of, but also to keep Damian well fed and properly clothed.

He had thought he would never get used to taking care of that brat, but… he likes it. He likes to have someone around now that Roy rarely visits. Damian is a handful, sure, but he's a good kid. Jason's sure Damian appreciates him, too, in his own special way.

Sometimes he has to leave for days at a time, and he's inconvenienced by a worry he never experienced during the time he lived alone. Damian can take care of himself, but he still depends on Jason for so many things and Jason's terrified of failing him.

One thing is everyone and everything failing Jason himself, he's used to that. That's the way the universe goes. Another different thing is that happening to anyone else, well, anyone else except the fucker that killed him. That bastard deserves all that's coming to him and more.

In the rare moments in which he allows himself to be honest, Jason looks over the fields of his farm, looks as Damian practices fighting stances and movements, and thinks that somehow he’s found the one thing he never thought would come his way after his revival: contentment.

  
  


Word travels far and fast, even when there are no divine messengers involved. Roy comes to visit a couple of times, whenever he’s able to, because _how come you didn’t send message about you having a kid_ and brings a couple more items that Jason had asked about in the past. It’s such a whirlwind and Jason can barely bring himself to correct Roy, Damian’s not _his_ kid. 

Roy just punches his arm when he does and smiling blindingly says: _You take care of him. He trusts you. Can’t see how he’s not_ yours. 

After that he stays long enough to help finishing and fully furnishing the new bedroom just for the brat, who proceeds to act like he isn’t impressed while fooling no one with how his eyes grow wide and shimmer in the sunlight.

“I suppose you’re not too bad,” Damian says, tilting his chin up and crossing his arms over his chest. Roy laughs at the picture he makes and reaches out to ruffle his hair, forever fearless in his most human trait. The one trait that made Jason inexplicably drawn to him in the first place.

“You’re welcome, kid,” with a wink, completely unperturbed by Damian slapping away his hand, he leans in and pretends to whisper, “now you can sleep away from Jay’s loud snores. I know how hard it is to drown them out—”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to complain about it, not when it makes Damian laugh. He does have the willforce to ignore the knowing look Roy sends his way, one that says too much and proves even more. The kind of look Roy’s mastered the best and that Jason’s been on the receiving end of one too many times.

He still doesn’t whine too much about it, because he _missed_ the bastard of a redhead, missed having him around and hanging out like they did in the past. 

(It takes more of his willpower than he’s ever going to admit not thinking of how much he’ll miss Roy once everything’s said and done. Once his plans have either succeeded or gone up in smoke and he’ll return to the land of the souls. He knows it will hurt, losing not only what he already lost once, but also what little he won this time.)

(He knows it’s all part of the price he will pay. He’s not enough of a fool to ignore it.)

He goes out during dusk and stares at the sky without the anger he used to have. Jason can tell something inside him is changing and it’s weirding him out. Whatever it is, it can wait. He hasn’t neither the time or the patience to deal with it.

“Hey,” Roy walks out of the house with a small smile, hands in the pockets of his pants, and stops by his side close enough to nudge his arm with a strong shoulder. “Fulfilling your daily quota of brooding?”

“I don’t brood,” grumbling, he lowers his gaze when he feels a cluster of stars seemingly shaping themselves into eyes. Stare long enough and they will stare back. He didn’t forget, he just—it’s just...

“Sure you don’t,” they can both hear Damian inside, making a whole lot of noise for someone who claimed was more than capable of cooking just fine. “You know, I’m still wondering why you never told me.”

Jason’s heart skips once, treacherously, the bastard. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s ok,” Roy pushes on, Jason turning to look at him in time to witness how he’s closing his eyes, tilting his head backwards as a gentle breeze flows through the space between them. “I get it, you know? Always did. I wish I could be there for you when it gets to the worst of the worst of the shitshow, but at least I’m here now. And you got that kid, too. He’ll go with you, won’t he?”

“Roy,” Jason tries to say and his chest feels tight, “listen—”

“You don’t have to explain anything, Jaybird,” stars, that stupid nickname, “I _know_. ‘Sides, you aren’t the only one with secrets. I’m just. I’m sorry. For you I’d go anywhere, do anything, but Lian… I promised her the universe and more, too. She _needs_ me, Jay. I can’t leave her.”

“I—,” he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, a slight tremor to his voice. He can’t blame Roy for being something Jason’s never known. He can’t blame Roy for loving his child, won’t do it, not now or ever. “It’s alright, Roy. It’s. It’s truly alright.”

Damian spends a day in silence after Roy leaves once more. Jason doesn’t stop to wonder why, so that’s the reason he doesn’t realize Damian is quiet because he noticed the cracks in Jason’s gaze while staring at the human’s retreating back. 

It's starting to feel like time is slowing down, stretching lazily and pausing to take minute-long naps every now and then. All that accomplishes is nothing at all; even if time were to stop for good, that would hardly be a deterrent for Jason, someone who’s been rejected by time already.

They are outside, tending to the plants and plucking out the chunks of weed growing amidst their harvest. It’s clear that the two of them are getting anxious, riddled with anguish that comes from the long awaiting for the right moment to act. Jason thought he’d grown used to waiting, and perhaps it’s Damian's lack of experience with it that’s making him more aware of everything, even the things that don’t need any awareness. 

It’s a nice day, though, exposure to the sun returning some of the divine color that Jason remembers Damian having before the fall. His demigod glow never quite faded, being truly honest, it had simply grown dull, almost imperceptible, notorious only to those who knew how to look.

“Looks like it won’t rain today,” he says with a single nod towards the cloudless sky. “It’s still morning, so if we leave now we’ll make it to the market by early noon at most. What do you think?”

“I didn’t know we were in need of more money,” frowning, Damian stands from his crouching position and stretches his arms over his head. He’s gained muscle thanks to the training they both go through every night before going to bed. They are certainly building each other up. “Did you spend all of it again, Todd?”

"Any more faith in me and you might as well deliver me back to demigod status all by yourself," he scoffs while wiping the sweat from his brow, leaving a stripe of dirt across his forehead as he does. Jason stands, too, and places his hands on his hips, looking on at the fields. "Well, we got rid of the weed, at least."

"Why do you want to go to the market, Todd?"

"Hm? That. Well, I thought that having extra money wouldn't hurt us. It's better to be prepared for unexpected expenses."

Damian doesn't quite believe him, it's clear in his eyes. He doesn't call Jason out on it anyway, though, because sometimes small mercies do happen—and because at least that’s a halfway decent lie, one that holds some truth in it. 

So he looks at Jason for a minute, maybe two, and does something as uncharacteristic of him as not voicing what he really thinks. No one ever falls for going off script once or twice anyway, so it’s nothing too serious that needs worrying about.

Jane is still a marvel to gaze at, and a wonder to have near. She’s fidgety, sure, but whenever Jason’s handling her reins she has a confidence that makes her seem wise and tall. She _is_ tall, she is a horse, of course she is; it’s the way she prances, looks down on Damian with her big weird black eyes while huffing air through her huge nostrils as if she can tell he doesn’t quite trust her and so she doesn’t trust him in return. 

And it's not like Jason's never offered to get Damian his own horse—he has, many times actually, still the reply was always the same: they don't need a second horse, and Jane's big enough for the two of them to ride on at the same time comfortably. Damian's loathe to admit it, but compared to Todd he's… significantly smaller. There's hope he'll grow soon, and then he'll be the one towering over the other, like his— _their_ —

Like father did.

There are many things Damian hates about the market that Jason is well aware of: the amount of people going in and out, to each and every possible direction, the noise of the haggling, the fighting, the chattering going on all around them. Those are the things Damian vocally admits to hating, and then are the others, the ones he loathes in silence lest the other get any funny ideas: like how he feels his skin crawl whenever the farmer girls spot him among the vendors and spend their entire time in the market blinking at him in a fashion that reminds him of the way a fly moves its wings in flight. 

Or like when the matchmaker, an old, harrowing woman with more wrinkles than crinkled paper, walks up to Jason with a shine to her eyes as she announces that she found a perfect wife for him, that he’s too handsome to be alone, even more so alone with a kid.

A strong contendant in things Damian hates but keeps quiet about is how Jason reacts to the propositions that just keep coming, like endless pests, whenever they spend more than a minute in the market: how he smiles with a gentleness that the old woman does not deserve, how he lets her talk and say everything she has to say before turning her down, always mindful of being respectful and always giving too much explanations to someone who isn’t worthy of a second of their time.

Yet it’s Todd’s expression afterwards that Damian does not know what to make of, what to do with; the dull light barely illuminating his face, the set of his brows, the way his lips tug to match the frown. He never asks, because asking means admitting he’s paying attention which, in turn, would lead to the implication that he _cares_. 

Something as simple as that means having an exploitable weakness, and Damian’s not ready to admit to having one.

“She’s not all that bad,” Jason hums as they both watch the old hag walking away, a funny rhythm to her steps, “she’s doing better now, at least. Her only son died a couple of years ago, we fought together in the war and—”

“Todd,” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest because _how dare_ he humanize the woman more than her humanity already does, “I truly do not care.”

“Come on kid, there’s no need to be so grouchy,” and Jason has the gall to ruffle Damian’s hair, grinning like an idiot at the sound of the farmer girls giggling not too far away, “you’re gonna scare your admirers.”

“Even better, then,” Damian fights a blush that stubbornly clings to his cheeks, “I do not have time for that idiocy. Neither do you, if you’ve forgotten.”

Whatever he’s about to reply with gets utterly lost when a flash of blue an orange shimmers amidst the crowd, a moment of silver and darkness, and Jason for an instant thinks that he’s seeing a vision in plain sunlight. He lets his eyes wander back to Damian, taking in his demigod shine, and suddenly regrets coming to the market.

Regrets being out in the open of all places, because nothing is ever as simple as it first appears to be. The shift in his energy must have been painfully obvious to the naked eye, because the brat is tensing up next to him and scanning the people around them with renewed vigor. Lucky thing that he’s wise enough to remain quiet about it, no need to further showcase that they are aware and ready.

  
  


The moment they are back in the farm, Jason instructs Damian to go to his room and to stay there till food is ready. The brat isn’t happy about it (even though he understands the necessity), sure, his displeasure is so palpable Jane the horse is getting a little nervous because of it, still he only nods and does as told. 

Which is a good thing, the best of things, since the moment he’s done guiding Jane into the stable there’s the distinct sound of someone stopping right behind him, the hiss of metal against metal thick in the charged air as a sword is taken from its sheath. Jason closes his eyes for only a moment, holds tight onto Jane’s reins till his knuckles are white and Jane is staring behind him with big terrified eyes.

“Easy there girl,” he mumbles, pushing through the sudden weight he feels on his tongue, “no need to go berzerk now.”

He knows exactly who is standing at his back, there’s no mistaking the way the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up or how his muscles tense, entire body preparing for a fight. Jason pushes through it, though, unsure of how wise it is but unwilling to show just how affected he feels.

It’d be ideal if Jane could go the rest of her life without witnessing any more violence. Jason knows for a fact life doesn’t give a fuck about what’s ideal and what isn’t; just look at him, he’s a perfect example of that. He only turns around when he’s done freeing Jane from the saddle and the reins, making sure she has both enough food and water for the rest of the day. 

His eyes easily find the intruder and he feels an unshakeable tiredness in his very bones, wondering why he couldn’t have been wrong about _this_ when he’s been wrong about so many things before.

Jason looks once at the other’s sword, the end of it aiming right to the center of his chest. “Didn’t think you’d be coming back, Slade. Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

“Hm,” taking a single step closer till they are both under the roof of the small stable, Slade drags his eye from Jason’s head to his feet before coming back up to meet his gaze. The action brings an involuntary shiver to Jason’s entire body, one he isn’t sure he manages to hide well enough. “You know, kid, you turned out to be more interesting than I thought you’d be.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes for good measure just to show how much he does not buy it. “Gee, that’s so nice of you to say,” picking up a rake, he carefully twirls it a bit in his hands, testing its weight, “if only I believed it.”

“Why, _Jason,_ ” Slade’s clearly grinning, a gleam to his expression akin to one of a predator, “you know it to be true.”

“Listen,” feeling confident with the rake in his hands, he takes one single step closer, shifting his feet to get into a better fighting stance, “save me the horseshit, will you? I’m not in the fucking mood.”

All that earns him is laughter so sharp Jason thinks he gets cut as he breathes in the air through which the sound travels. It’s his only warning before the sword is clashing with the rough metal of the rake, edged side lodged between two of the four teeth, and everything in Slade’s being (from his stance to his smile) is a fire that infuriates Jason endlessly. 

Fire he replies to with heat of his own, uncaring and unafraid of getting burnt because that’s the _easy_ thing, that’s the _normal_ part, nothing he’s never been through before. So he grunts as he adds more of his weight into the movement, veins in his arms more prominent with the effort, and manages to push Slade backwards, their feet leaving tracks in the dirt of the stable. 

Jane the horse makes a loud, scared sound behind him, her restlessness only adding to the static between them, giving Jason the charge he needs for the final push that sends them outside the small structure and under clear blue skies.

The previous times he hadn’t been ready and that surprise had ultimately been the deciding factor in the outcome of the fights. Jason’s under no delusion, he knows that Slade is undeniably strong in ways he’s yet to be, but now he’s got a better fighting chance than before—and, in situations like this, that is _all_ that matters: to be able to give as well as he can take. 

He’s never been someone that backs down from a fight, and he’s not about to start, either. He might not have his sword but he likes to think a rake is an upgrade from a kitchen knife. This time is going to be trickier, though, since he doesn’t have anything that might give him leverage… well, there _is_ something (rather, _someone_ ), but he’d rather die a thousand times over than to resort to such a thing.

Slade moves with a grace that should be unnerving yet all it does is make Jason feel some sort of respect. Each step and each blow is dealt with mesmerizing precision, with dexterous practice, with a raw force behind every movement that betrays only the sheer intent in Slade’s actions. 

Jason knows that this is happening for a reason, already has his theories about it, and still seeing it laid out like this takes his breath away. Makes him want to push himself even further.

Maybe this is what Bru—maybe this is what they meant when they said that fighting Slade is diving head first into a dangerous endeavour: Jason can easily see himself getting addicted to the high that this is giving him, that giddy, electrified feeling he gets from being kept on his toes, on high alert, always moving and dodging and parrying and trading blow for blow in what must be an arcane rhythm.

“You’ve improved,” Slade looks at him with half a smile on his lips, sweat on his brow and a shimmer to his eye that wasn't there before.

Jason huffs, twisting a little so that he can step to the side without immediately having his organs meet the other's sword and adding a bit of distance between them. He might have more range with the rake, but it's worth little if Slade keeps getting closer and closer.

"I thought—," he quickly spins the rake in his hands when Slade's sword slashes through the air so that the edge gets stuck in the thick wooden handle instead of making a fillet out of him. Slade grunts and moves to dislodge it, yet Jason's faster and he takes full advantage of the moment to leap right into Slade's space, their weapons between them, faces only centimeters apart.

Taking in a quick breath, he says: "I thought you were the type to honor your word."

This close, the two of them breathing in the air the other lets out, there’s little they can not see and notice in each other. Like the shift, subtle but true, in the oddity that’s part of the glint in Slade’s eye, the barely perceptible twitch of an eyebrow, the self-assuredness that never goes. 

Jason swallows back a groan when he feels more pressure being put into their stalemate, his hands that are holding onto the handle of the rake coming closer to his chest and, together with them, the taunting sword. They won’t be able to stay in this impasse for much longer.

It’s surprising when Slade is the one who moves first, ripping his sword away while taking a measured step backwards, looking at Jason with a slight incline to his head. The silence that follows is nearly deafening, leaving Jason hyper aware of the unsteady thrum of his heart, the slight shaking to his breaths, his pulse beating away at the back of his ears.

"The kid," Slade begins, the easy grip he has on his weapon an illusion, "he's not like us."

"Don't know why you care."

"You see," humming, he relaxes his stance just a little still never enough for Jason to find an easy opening for a hit, "that makes him _valuable_ in ways neither of us are."

Jason holds onto the rake, moves one foot behind him and plants the soles firmly on the ground. The rough metal glints under the sun and still the shine is nothing compared to the embers in Slade's eye. He grits his teeth, the tension in his jaw something that will surely give him a headache, and gives his best glare, the one he reserves only for bastards and fuckers. Slade is a rare case of undeniably being in both categories.

"Whatever you're planning," the words are close to a growl and it infuriates him _so_ when they seem to have no effect on the other, falling off him like ripples, "I'm not going to let you do it."

Slade hums, sparing a glance to the tool in Jason's hands before sheathing his sword. That, above anything else, is what truly makes Jason freeze. 

"Tell me, kid, what do _you_ know about us?"

"The hell you mean?"

"Oh, you know more than well," rolling his shoulders once, he leaves one hand idle on the handle of his weapon. "You wouldn't have sent the brat to hide if you didn't. And just like you and me know, many others will, soon. Once it settles in and becomes obvious."

Against his better instincts, Jason lowers his rake, just slightly, yet still more than enough of an exploitable opening for someone of their kind and with their experience. There's truth in what's being said, a truth that Jason can't continue ignoring, and yet—and yet—

"You were right when you assumed I already knew of your plans. What makes you think others haven't heard of them already?"

"I don't care about that," he snarls, upper lip curling and showing his teeth. He had been expecting it, honestly; the land of the souls doesn't get much action besides the usual, so whenever one comes and goes, anything related to their short stay soon becomes valuable information.

As much as it irritates him, there is nothing he could've done to prevent it.

"Sure you don't, kid. And surely you don't care about Quinn knowing, too."

Each muscle in Jason's body locks up and tenses. Breathing is a task he's suddenly not fit for doing, that name reverberating like echoes in a far away cave, scaring away the bats hanging from the ceiling, making the stalactites break off and shatter at his feet. 

There's a sound inside him, vibrating, a laughter, a laughter that never ends, that for a moment wraps itself tightly around him before letting go. 

It might have been only a few seconds, still when he comes to, Slade seems to be closer than before.

"Why are you here?" The edges of his vision are shrouded by mist, a mist that's deafening, blinding. The rake feels like a flimsy excuse for protection, now, it can't take from him what's damaging inside. 

And he hates, hates the knowledge in Slade's gaze, hates the curl of his smile, the ease behind it. 

"Call it an investment, kid."

_Of course,_ a voice among voices within Jason's thoughts cuts through everything, _latching onto the benefits._

Damian is downright furious when Jason opens the door of their small farm, scowling from the threshold of his bedroom and clutching onto Jason's sword. He stands completely unperturbed by the other's stare, looking directly past his shoulder and to the unwanted guest just a few steps behind Jason's back.

"What is _he_ doing here, Todd?"

The sound of Slade's chuckle is grating on Jason's already frayed nerves. He musters some more strength to his glare, trying to _really_ convey what he truly thinks but Damian is still looking past him and, aside from his words, acting as if he's anywhere but in front of him. 

Which only fuels how tired Jason feels, adding weight to his bones and deepening the shadows under his eyes. He appreciates and admires the brat's spirit, but he could really do without another fight breaking inside the house. It's still so fresh in his mind the fiasco that involved replacing the door. Never again. Plus, he really doesn't want Roy around when Slade is close enough to be fatal.

"What he's doing here," he says, the tension in his muscles refusing to yield, "is—"

"If you say _none of my business_ I swear, Todd, that I will cut off your toes and draw out your blood while you sleep."

Jason is many things, he's aware. Many aren't necessarily good but are a necessity _per se_. The thing is, he is many things and can be a handful more if he feels like it. Because of that he knows the hows and whens to be smart, and thus deems this the right moment to promptly shut his mouth. 

He's angry, he notices. Then again, he lives in anger and the day the known warmth of that fire ceases—that's when he'll die in a way that sticks.

So he angrily turns to Slade, who he had at his back even though every nerve in him screamed against it, while providing a partial divider between him and Damian. He's still very much in the way and more than capable of interfering should Slade try anything funny. The amused stare he earns in answer to that makes him think of how pleasing it'd be to stab the bastard in the crotch.

"Well, Jason," Slade speaks and his voice is a scream of _punch me_ that Jason's very tempted to listen to, " _why_ am I here?"

He's smart, alright, but he never said he'd commit to a vow of silence. "Listen, you asshat—"

"Ah, you've used a new curse word," Damian comments where he's still standing, "this ought to be interesting."

Jason stares at the hinges of the door and resolutely does not think of how good his own hands would look while strangling someone. He clears his throat and continues.

" _You_ ," he points to Slade, index finger waving fingerily in a menacing way, "are here because you want to reap from the benefits of my plans but you insist on calling it an _investment._ And _you,_ " turning his head to glare at the little gremlin with a big adult sword in his hands, "are supposed to be _in_ your room. As in, _inside. Door closed._ "

"Had I really wanted to get to him, a door—"

"Two," Jason seethes and shifts his glare to Slade who honestly deserves it more than Damian but Damian is good at making people glare at him and Slade is good at redirecting attention.

"— _two_ doors weren't ever going to stop me. They wouldn't even slow me down."

"Let me be clear here," Jason lets his upper lip curl, showing a lot of teeth, "I will fucking decimate you if you break a door again."

"Your priorities are outstanding as usual, Todd."

Damian's words elicit the curl of a slow smile across Slade's lips. Jason promptly squashes down all the feelings it brings forth in him. He's angry and he's stubborn and he _will_ beat whatever hormonal crap he's got going on into submission. He. Will.

Something must've gotten through anyway because Slade's all eyes for him, intense gaze focused on his face and the smile a firm staple that makes Jason think of viciously vicious ways of making it go away. Damn it. If it goes on like this, Damian will call him out on it and that is going to suck.

No one wants an angry kid calling you out for letting your nether regions have a voice in the general council of your thoughts. Jason misses the simple times he spent on his own or with Roy. Guess there's no time like the present to miss the past. Perhaps he really should’ve accepted Roy’s proposition the last time he was around, that would’ve made this _need_ easier to deal with.

“Well?” Slade takes that last step forward to be closer to Jason, so close it’s like their body heats are mingling in whatever remains of distance. Crossing his arms over his chest only leaves him centimeters from touching Jason’s arms. Jason really wants to stop this line of thought.

“I don’t need to remind you that you are bound by your word,” puffing out his chest a little, even when he no longer needs to pretend to be bigger than he is, still brings him some degree of comfort, “and you know more than well that doing something to either of us will go against it.”

He only gets a raised eyebrow at his words, which doesn’t really help him at all. He turns back to Damian because that’s definitely better than dealing with Slade any longer.

“He’s here till he gets what he wants. In exchange, he’s going to help with some stuff. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but neither of you can kill or stab each other, because Slade, that would be humiliating for you to be forced to that point by a kid, and Damian, stabbing is not always the answer. Now, suck it up, because this is our agreement and I got stuff to do, alright? Good.”

  
  


It takes longer to come up than Jason thought it would. Knowing Slade, though, the reason is surely that he had been waiting for the perfect occasion to bring it up, a moment in which Jason found himself oddly alone and with his defenses down. Because nothing they do is ever done by chance, and Slade is just like the bastard in the sky Jason likes to ignore when it comes to that.

They are outside, sparring together to pass the time they inevitably have to let go by before they can keep moving on with their plans. It also has the double function of them staying in shape and training, knowing each other’s movements, synching their steps.

Damian isn’t too far away, practicing different forms with the new sword Jason forged exclusively for him, one that matched his height and weight. By all means, things are going better than they ever did, which is why the moment was cursed from the very beginning to have an abrupt end.

“He doesn’t know,” Slade speaks seemingly out of nowhere and Jason is startled enough to lose his footing, listing to the side and nearly falling down. “You aren’t even considering telling him.”

“Of course not,” he huffs, not even questioning what they are talking about because it’s been on his mind constantly, and it’s a big obvious unbreached topic. Changing his grip on his sword and charging forward, he presses closer into the other fallen’s space, mindful of the direction of the wind to try and avoid being overheard. “It would complicate the plan. It would put him in danger.”

Slade humours him for all of two seconds before he easily dislodges the temporary block and brings Jason down with brutal efficiency. Jason is accordingly mortified over how his pants suddenly feel tighter, though luckily Slade carries on, doesn’t let him _overthink._ “And is he truly safe now?”

The threat goes unsaid, sharp and thrilling against his windpipe. From the corner of his eye he can see Damian is now looking at them, expression grim as he slowly inches closer. Since they’ve been reunited, the brat has seen him on his back, on the floor, more often than on his two feet during a fight against Slade and Jason doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. 

In his defense, he’d been horribly ill-prepared the previous times. Now, now it’s just Slade playing with his biggest weakness: his own mind. Because of course the bastard noticed the guilt he feels over keeping secrets from Damian. He surely noticed how he’s fighting with himself over it, even though he knows this is the best course of action, this is the best bet he’s got when it comes to keeping the other safe.

“And what’s more, _Jason,_ ” his name rolls effortlessly off Slade’s tongue, “haven’t you wondered _how_ he got here?”

With a groan, he twists underneath the other’s hold until he has enough room to hit a bundle of nerves right over a knee. He keeps moving, pushes with the little give he earns, flips them around so that Slade is on his back, Jason nearly on top of him and wishing for a way to wipe that smug smirk off the older fallen’s face.

“You sure love to run your mouth,” his expression twists into a grimace as he lets go, standing up in one swift motion. He steps away from the range of Slade’s sword as he sheathes his own, looks up at the sky and studies the position of the sun. 

The tiredness he feels on his shoulders is sudden but undeniable.

 _Of course_ he wonders. Of course he wants to know. Still he knows a sensitive topic when he sees one, and his curiosity isn’t worth as much as Damian’s peace. He’s going to respect the boundary.

“A couple of hours till sunset,” he says as a way of changing topics, uninterested in carrying out that particular train of thought. “I should go and get dinner started.”

He’s not thinking all too clearly. He hates that Slade can get in his head so easily. He hates that he is in a weak enough mental state to begin with for this to happen. He’s been letting his guard down and this is his wakeup call; he needs to do better.

Jason doesn’t notice that both Damian and Slade are watching him walk back into the house, which is good, probably, considering the next thing Damian does is point the end of his sword at Slade.

“I don’t know what you said to him,” he begins, scowl firm in place, “but if you ever hurt him, I will _maim_ you.”

The words make Slade smile, a private little thing that he doesn’t share with anybody often. “Don’t worry, kid. I don’t intend on hurting him.”

Damian squints at him, glares some more. “You are not to bed him either.”

Now, _that._ No one can blame Slade for laughing.

He stays up long after Damian and Slade presumably go to bed. Well, presumably for Slade—he’s fairly certain the brat grew tired with all that training, which had happened after they took care of the farm and animals. Meanwhile Slade had gone and done his own thing, who knows what, there’s not that much energy in him left to care about that.

What matters is that he stays up long after they go to bed, he’s alone sitting by the fireplace, cleaning his weapons. That’s when he feels it, a tugging on the chords of his soul, a tugging that follows a rhythmical pattern.

One two three, one, two, one two three. The amulet dangling from his neck glimmers, the lazy dance of the flames in front of him making the call all the more alluring.

“Not now,” he grunts, knowing the dastardly asshole that’s beckoning him can hear every word he says, “kinda busy. You know, big plan and all.”

The tugging continues, unrelenting and borderline painful the more it goes on—Etrigan must really need him back in his haunt for whatever reason. But he can’t, he refuses to leave Damian alone with Slade as much as he refuses to have the two of them tag along.

“Give me a couple of days. Let me call, let me call someone to hold the fort here and I’ll go.”

Jason wishes it to be, but knows better than to believe in his wishes for a second when the flames casting orange shadows across his face grow bigger, wilder, reach out to touch his wrists. They don’t burn him. They can’t.

It’s an agreement being made, and he doesn’t know how he should feel about that considering there must be a catch somewhere, there’s a trap he’s not seeing. It doesn’t matter, though.

The moment the flames go back to their common behaviour he stands from where he’s sitting, leaves his weapons momentarily scattered and looks for some parchment and ink. He has a letter to write. Hopefully reinforces will arrive in time.

After that, Jason gives up all pretense of ever trying to sleep. Instead, he tidies up everything within reach, begins preparing something to eat, ignores the look Slade gives him at some point from the threshold of the bedroom they are forced to share. 

The letter is on the table and Jason’s sure the other can see it, can maybe even read the name of the person it’ll go to, but he’s running low on caring-about-anything juices so he doesn’t even attempt to explain himself or anything he happens to be doing. 

Not when this is not a detour from the plan. Yet.

That is enough to keep him moving, keep him trying to distance himself from his anxiousness by giving his hands something to do.

He’s about to clean for a second time all his weapons when rough fingers close around his wrist just as a chest presses against his back, effectively caging him in against the table. His breathing hitches, an aborted little sound coming from deep within his lungs, and everything in him goes still, expectant, one bad shake away from snapping and unfolding into chaos.

“You’re wound too tight,” Slade’s voice rolls smoothly over his shoulder, his exhale teases his ear, making something in him grow heavier, headier. 

This close, Slade’s body heat feels like the promise of warmth his bed holds, the press of Slade’s chest against him as they breathe a surprisingly steadying presence, the hand gripping his own a hushed thing that might not be that much of a secret.

“Let go,” he says still, voice not shaking but it’s a close deal. Even when he isn’t sure if he truly wants that. This is simply not the time for any of… whatever this moment is supposed to be.

Slade hums, remains close, too close, everything in Jason is torn between a fight or flight answer. An arm wraps around his waist, makes the contact between them more complete, and Jason is too stunned, too touch-starved to try and stop his blush when even their hips are pressed together. 

It’s too intimate with nothing but a door separating the scene they must be making from Damian’s eyes. Still he’s rooted to the spot, attempting to regain his heart from wherever it is trying to go. There’s a big hand splaying over his lower abdomen, making the little space left separating them nonexistent.

“What will you do if I let you go?” Slade is an overpowering energy pressed flush against Jason and Jason is about to burst at the seams.

“If?” He struggles to find his usual bite, ends up dropping the handle of his sword back on the table. “There’s no—there’s no _if,_ you’re going to let go now and—”

“And have you needlessly burning away your energy until you either do the smart thing and rest or attempt to do something useful with it, like training?” The older fallen is not kind, has no reason or intention to be, and he presses in further, till the edge of the table digs painfully against Jason’s thighs. 

Even with the weapons within reach, this close and with not enough wiggle room to fight there’s not much Jason can do, something they both know.

“Because the way you are right now, you are a walking target waiting for someone to get just a little lucky. Distracted enough to not even notice me approaching you until it was too late.”

Enough space to move or not, everything in Jason is against letting this go on any longer than it already has. Taking a deep breath, he grabs the nearest dagger, doesn’t even flinch when he brings it down to his and Slade’s joint hands on the table—the action has the desired effect though, which is to force Slade into either accept being stabbed or change his grip. 

He goes for the second option, leaving Jason enough time to free himself and turn around, their chests bumping against each other in the process. With a snarl that’s almost feral, Jason lifts the blade to Slade’s throat, nicking the skin before a hand clamps down on his wrist, fingers digging in the soft spot of the center with excruciating strength. 

The grip goes slack, the dagger falls to the floor just as Slade throws him down on the table, sending more weapons scattering all over the place.

Jason curses, wind knocked out of him upon impact. Slade keeps pressing in closer, right in between his legs and effectively getting rid of the high chance of being kicked had he not done that. 

He still gets a punch to the face, an uppercut to the jaw, a third one that breaks his nose—until he slams his head down and hits Jason full on, the crack a dizzying noise that leaves both of them stunned, stopping in their tracks.

Blood from Slade’s broken nose drips down past his upper lip and onto Jason’s mouth. They stare at each other, breathing the same air, in and out, in and out, until Jason twitches, the movement dragging their hips together.

It brings forth a gasp, making Jason taste Slade’s blood on his tongue, making Slade focus solely on Jason’s red-tinted lips. They have both healed now, thanks to their fallen status; there’s nothing to distract them from their proximity. Nothing to stop them.

Whatever apprehension had been before in Jason’s eyes is now long gone, replaced by intrepid want, by shy but open desire. Everything Slade wants to see.

The second time he lowers his head, he does so slowly, no intent to harm behind the action. He bends down and this presses them closer, turns the heat between their legs into a delicious thing.

“Slade,” Jason whispers, tip of his tongue darting out to wet a plump bottom lip. 

The energy around them grows completely still.

“I—”

“What is going on,” Damian’s voice is the ice of winter breaking for the first time into existence. His words are not even poised as a question. He’s simply standing there, holding onto the handle of his bedroom’s door, staring at them with accusation thundering in his eyes.

When the other fallen doesn’t move, Jason frantically pushes him off and away from him, flustered like he never was before. Never doubt the Fates to turn anything into a disaster faster than one can blink.

“Fighting,” he says, breathes, looks at the floor around the table. Cluttered with weapons. “We were, uh. Fighting.”

Damian’s stare turns into a glare. He takes in the picture Jason makes, turns to scowl at Slade, who is just as dishevelled.

“When I woke because of the ruckus you two were making,” he talks slowly, measuring every sound, “I thought that was indeed the case.”

“Damian—”

“Leave it, Todd,” the youngest snaps, turning around and beginning to close the door again. “I don’t need an explanation.”

  
  


Jason sends the letter that very same day. Pays more than enough to make sure it’ll arrive to its destination as fast as possible for a regular human, and then quickly makes his way back to the farm. Leaving had been a risk in the first place with how the morning unfolded after Damian stumbled upon… stumbled upon… what, exactly? And what even truly caused it? 

While it’s true that he’s definitely, well, attracted to Slade, the other’s intentions are the unknown ones. What’s in it for the fallen? It _can’t_ be something as simple and human as finding someone sexually attractive. That simply wouldn’t make sense. Plus, he’s already earning more than enough by knowing the details of Jason’s plan, with all the benefits that come from knowing each step and precaution.

Lost in his own mind, he picks up a couple of things from the market, fills his satchel with sweets that hopefully will placate Damian’s temper at least a little. A merchant’s daughter, lovely with her braided hair and delicately poised hands, looks at him from over the shoulder of her chaperone, perhaps hoping for a smile. 

All he can think is that she’s too frail, unable to hold him down and probably unwilling. Her hands are too small. Her features too round. Which is a shame at the same time it isn’t, leaving him resolutely trying to chase those thoughts away as he hops on the saddle of Jane, trustworthy and complicated as always.

On the short way back he thinks he sees a glimmer of blonde hair along the treeline at the side of the road. He pays close attention to it, tries to determine if it had been a trick of the light or something else. Unease follows him to the threshold of his door, nearly identical to the one Slade once broke. 

With that name like a cloud in his mind, he enters, sends a silent prayer to no god in particular that the letter will be read in time.

—


	2. Intermezzo: Damian's Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never good to tempt the Fates: give hint of bone and they'll gnaw on the flesh until their teeth rip into the promised reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing about this chapter: originally it wasn't going to be part of the main story and it was going to be a sort-of spinoff (since it's from Damian's pov). The original story was actually going to be just one big thing, but while writing I ended up needing to split it in parts. And since the theme is about gods and goddesses, I thought "well, what better time to include a reference to the catholic holy trinity than now (even though the deities here are far from the catholic religious figures)!!!". It's all about the symbolism, pals!
> 
> For that same reason, both this and the third chapter are going to be considerably shorter than the first one, which I was kind of forced to mantain as an almost-20k entity for the sake of consistency within the plot.
> 
> Thank you all for reading the first chapter, and I hope you enjoy this update too!

**Prole Divina**

2\. INTERMEZZO: DAMIAN'S FALL

How the mighty fall

and fall

and fall

and crash. 

How the mighty give form

to the glory of today's trash. 

He comes to hushed screaming, yelled whispers, an absence like an unforgiving void. Nightwing doesn't even notice he's back, busy tearing at his hair and cursing at their father in a way that's borderline demanding to be smithed. Nightwing doesn't hear him when he says that it's never good to tempt the Fates: give hint of bone and they'll gnaw on the flesh until their teeth rip into the promised reward.

Father doesn't listen, either, or perhaps he does but he's too busy with his silent turmoil to acknowledge the youngest's words. It's not something that bodes well for peace of mind and spirit; it makes him fear of what's to come—still he remains quiet about such feeling, lest they decide to not tell him what's happening at all. 

It's finally Red Robin the one who rests a shaking hand on his shoulder, eyes wrecked and dismayed. The words don't need saying, it's clear in the harsh line of his mouth, the paleness of his glow, the way the hand is not for support but for need.

It's Red Robin the one to break protocol among all these other things that are broken and says what should never need to be expressed:

"It's _Jason._ He's _gone_."

Damian knows no one in his family will ever walk away from this and remain whole. As it is, they are still clumsily attempting to sew back together jagged edges, serrated borders, trying to find away to embrace the space of who's gone. 

That's how _his_ return surprises them, just in the dawn of them mourning the loss of new hopes, and that's why _his_ actions hurt them more than any divinity or blasphemy ever could. 

Above all, Damian watches on, in silence, because there are rumors coming from the other places, from the other beings, and it's better to watch in case they happen to be true. (And perhaps, just perhaps, _he_ won't be as alone as he is if Damian accompanies _him_ with his eyes.) 

He's learning and seeing and in his mind he's yearning for a previously ignored time in which there were no hurt noises, no damning silences, no trees that show up in his nightmares and call to him in blood, in punches, in guts.

(Nightwing doesn't let him approach the tree that took Jason. There's a panicked look to his eye as he redirects Damian's steps time and time again. They are all on edge, keeping too much of a close eye on the lone location, on the place no one ever went to and now no one would go close to unless forced.

From afar, it’s a cliff like many others, a space that implies a limit between land and air, and sky. Before, they didn’t mind it as much. Before, it hadn’t meant much. But he’s been paying attention, he’s been straining his hearing and catching hushed words. With no one giving direct answers, Damian decides to confront the Fates.)

The edges of his father are mist that integrates well with the clinging hands of shadows. He's looking at the land of mortals, witnessing Superman approaching Jason, and Damian snaps.

"I _suppose_ you never saw of importance mentioning that you knew the Fates never gave Jason any kind of fulfillment."

The god says nothing, though the shadows twitch.

"And I _suppose_ you never thought of telling us what _that tree_ really is."

"That tree," he speaks then, finally, voice barely contained storm and thunder, and the mist starts moving like flickering tendrils all over the place, "is none of your business. Never should've been."

The sky around them crackles, anguish pouring everywhere and nowhere at all. When a voice rises over the ruckus, it's Nightwing's.

Damian tries to listen to the words, but the thunder is reverberating inside him. 

Like the Fates had said it would.

The crescendo of the crackling seems to know no limits, going higher and higher, becoming more and more impossible to breathe through it. He’ll never admit it, he will never say that in that moment he feels fear, panic, outright refusal of the knowledge that tells him, tells him…

“Father!” He gives a blind step, thunder coming down all around existence. But father never turns, back a compound of black, dense shadows, mist clashing with the blue of Nightwing’s rage.

The Fates had said _and when no one ever listens, and when screaming takes you nowhere—when you feel what you won’t accept, your zenith will come. Beyond that, there is nothing else to see._

For an instant Red Robin’s concern reverberates inside Damian as he flies, but the connection is swiftly cut with a swing of his wings. Too late, never too little, what an unfortunate thing.

He stands on the cliff, alone, shivering, and places an insecure hand on the tree. Faster than he can close his eyes, thunder comes down on him, burns him from the inside to the outside and from the outside to whatever’s in between. He doesn’t know if he screams, if he cries, if he stays silent.

A thunder becomes two and three and ten, the crackling energy makes his muscles spam, his jaw close around his tongue, blood pool in his mouth. It burns him and marks him, leaves him blind and senseless.

When Damian falls there is no laughter, only the silence of the world in his deaf ears.

Following the trail is not easy but it is comforting. Jason always had the ability of being what no one would suspect he could be. Damian holds onto it, eases off the pain of reforming tissue, retraces the path of Jason’s soul. 

Now he understands why his mother once said it’s the process of healing what hurts more than being wounded—because you’re wounded once, in an action that doesn’t carry on through time, while healing is an ongoing thing, constant, slow, unrelenting.

He’s moving too fast, something in him shines when he passes the land of the souls, something that escapes his knowledge. Millions of malformed hands with their mangled fingers reach out to try and catch him. Jason’s soul feels stronger here, though stagnant, a confusing thing among the cries, the screams, the hollowness of those who await eternity to be the judge of their characters. 

When he finally blinks, all of that is far behind and he’s falling falling _falling_ , for how long is he going to fall.

Until he feels himself crashing. And then light sparks. All around him. All inside him. Piercing straight through the center of his brain and pinning his thoughts down, shifting through them, discarding the ones the light cannot shine upon. It’s warm, too warm, like lightning but without the searing pain. It’s doing strange things to the stitches of his soul. The fabric that composes him.

This is the part the Fates cannot see. This is the moment he too becomes an agent outside of their grasp. Only that he doesn’t know. This is outside the realm of what is written.

He's in a tent, Todd standing right in front of him, donning an armor that says nothing of the body underneath. The feel of everything is so different here that he has a hard time grasping his thoughts, controlling his words, and when he thinks he's getting the hang of it Todd gives him a waxy object (a candle) while existence around them goes up in flames.

"Run!" Todd screams at him and his legs begin to follow the order, taking him far past the outskirts of the campsite before he remembers he never lets anyone boss him around. 

So he shoves the object in between the layers of his tattered clothes, retraces his steps and rips a weapon from the nearest soldier lying prone on the ground. Following Todd's trail now that they are in the same land is easy, much too easy. Which proves to be a good thing.

Damian grins as he plunges the sword all the way through _their_ enemy. After all he just went through, he's not going to let anyone get in their way, and anyone who dares stand against his _family_ is to face his wrath.

Nevermind if he is ill-suited for the task, he will look after Todd every step of the long promised road. Something no one thought was necessary, but then again, no one had truly been paying attention. Just look at what that left them with.

Things here are… different. Jury's still out on whether that's good or bad. Though he supposes it's not entirely unpleasant, and Tood, unlike the others, is forthcoming enough with him. He doesn't keep secrets. For the first time in too long, Damian feels like he truly is an equal.

Perhaps that is why he never feels shame when he ultimately needs help off the horse, or when he clings onto strong shoulders for a moment longer, just one, ignoring his trembling and the shaking of the arms holding him. 

Shame never comes, not even when the soles of his feet finally meet the ground, and this goes so much against so many things that he latches onto the mess he sees simply because that is safer than letting himself ponder any longer.

Words he never measures are said, he never expected them to slice Jason open the way they did. _Breathe,_ he says like an order and it doesn't really work. _Please breathe. Please breathe, Todd._

Damian discovers that he profoundly dislikes fear.

He misses him. His father.

They both do. They both deny it.

If he's ever adrift, just one look at Todd's aimless steps helps him set his path back afoot. Todd is like the southeast in a compass with a broken north, with no arrows, yet still somehow mostly always accurate to his own needs. 

"The heart will take you many directions," his mother had once said, too long ago and now the phrase is covered in dust and cobwebs. "It's the compass the blindly desperate follow. That's why they are never truly lost." 

Damian thinks Jason is playing dumb, acting like he doesn't notice he's been having vivid dreams, nightmares of memories. On the mornings after his slumbering mind makes him recall his mother, Jason always has tea waiting for him by the table.

And that, above the soft eyes occasionally looking at him, is the most telling sign of all.

But he doesn’t comment on it, takes note of Jason’s tactics and plays dumb as well. After all, there is no harm in that and there is such warmth in this. So he sits and cradles the cup of tea in his hands, feels the roughness of the material against the sensitive skin of his hands, gets lost in the gentle puffs of smoke coming from the warm liquid. 

Thinks of his father, first, his mother, next. Thinks of Grayson, even Drake, and when he opens his eyes Todd is always there, looking but not looking, understanding clear as day between them.

So he keeps quiet, because this little thing can be theirs and theirs alone.

Roy Harper, so apparently mortal in his vulgar birth, comes and throws off his entire conception of what humans can be like. There is something… odd about him, about his glow and the promise of power running through the veins that stand out under the skin of his arms. 

There are eons of knowledge in the wickedness of his eyes and the blade of his smile, yet the ease he brings, the tranquility he gives Todd—Damian would be distrustful, perhaps he _should,_ but he _can’t,_ not when Roy makes things smoother, brings in expertise earned by sweat and by blood.

And for a moment Damian finds himself not wanting the human to go. Finds himself wishing Todd would be upfront about everything, about his story, about their plans, and ask Roy to join them not only for the good asset he can be in battle, but because of the _heart_ he brings. 

A heart that beats with the calmness Grayson’s winds are usually known to bring, the security, the confidence. A heart with strong beliefs that were forged with a material so strong it might as well be divine, since not even pain could wipe them away.

He doesn’t utter a word and does his best to hide his tells. It’s a must, for him. Still, when Roy leaves and he watches something trembling, delicate, vacate and hollow in Jason, Damian wishes he had said something. If only to delay the moment one day more.

There are some nights he wakes up in his bedroom, alone and short of breath, remembering the fire and the pain that deconstructed him before his fall. He wakes up alone and in those moments he feels small, lost, vulnerable.

Wonders if father is watching over him, wonders if father is angry at what he’s done to be here, to be in this now. 

Lifts his head to stare at the blank ceiling, imagines the constellations standing above him instead of around him.

And for that single immaculate moment he lets himself think of how much he misses being there. How much he misses his family.

(Ever since Todd fell. Ever since The Fates played them with no mercy and no hesitation.)

  
  


Damian _loathes_ Slade.

Loathes the greed he recognizes in his eye and the way he looks at Todd like his brother is mere prey. Something to be won. Something to be owned.

When he’s brought into their side, under their roof, Damian feels affronted enough to consider confronting the Council of Fates. Imagines what it would be like to openly and directly go against them, to taunt and provoke. Before he can carry out any half-thought plan, his logical side swiftly kicks in and reminds him of the things they could do to him as payback for his heresy, his offense. 

Having no further options, he frowns, he protests, clings onto Jason’s sword and glares a promised death at Slade whenever Todd is not looking.

He can’t go against the Fates any more than he has, but he can and will fight Slade if the need arises. He’s not about to let Todd become a tragedy of failed plans and crumpled aspirations. He’s not about to let this steel-blooded fallen ruin what they have sacrificed so much to accomplish.

Damian knows Jason can protect himself. But he is ready to take on the role. He’s ready to do anything to bring both of them home.

That is the reason of his fall.

—


End file.
